


Sometimes Losing's a Lot Like Winning

by demon_rum



Category: Eagle of the Ninth Series - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demon_rum/pseuds/demon_rum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca comes down with something; Marcus has to take charge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Losing's a Lot Like Winning

One of the things Esca dislikes most about being a slave—besides the obvious unpleasantness of tasks like washing someone else's damp, smelly feet, standing around hungry while serving delicious foods to lumpy Romans and knowing that in several hours you will be fed a smallish bowl of something soup-like, or working long hours for people with nothing better to do than drink wine and complain about how lazy the slaves are—is how slavery has snuck in under his skin, despite all his efforts to resist it. He has nothing in common with a born-and-raised house slave like Stephanos, content with life and proud of his service and his master. Esca is the son of a chieftain, high-born and warrior-trained, raised to ride horses and hunt prey and hold his head high. He cannot forget it.

(Actually at times he wishes he could, like when he is pouring wine for some idiot who sneers at his tattoo and repeats the old unclever line about how Caesar should never have invaded Britain since Brits make wretched slaves. Then Esca wishes he could be more like Stephanos or Sassticca, who would just roll their eyes and shrug it off. They considered those sorts of insults distracting at best, on par with a stubbed toe and just as impersonal. But Esca the chieftain's son cannot let them slide.)

And yet.

He has seen it happen so many times on the battlefield, and afterwards in the garrison and the arena. People embrace their roles. Give a frightened soldier a shield, call him a warrior and tell him he is brave. That man will respond by training diligently, fighting fearlessly and carrying himself with pride. Give an unwilling slave a helmet and a net and tell him he could be a gladiator. That man will respond by practicing harder, fighting creatively and working to earn the crowd's favor.

Or, in Esca's case, give a man a second-hand tunic and a bowl of something soup-like and tell him again and again, in a thousand small painful ways, that he is nothing more than a pair of hands expected to do his master's bidding. Set the table, pour the wine, wash the dishes, scrape the oil off my back, hand me that, stand over there. Fasten these sandals. Carry my bag. Carry me. Look at the floor when you are speaking to your master. My name is Marcus, but you don't get to call me that.

It all gets to him, gets under his skin. Despite his best efforts to resist, Esca the chieftain's son finds himself thinking like a slave. Responding like a slave. Acting like a slave.

This amuses him whenever he catches himself fretting over the fact that he's acting _like_ a slave. It's funny, almost, because it's a bit like saying Esca looks _like_ a Brigante.

Esca is a slave.

And at present this slave is trying his best to dodge the questioning look in his master's eyes, because like it or not every slave knows and understands a few basic facts. Your master is everything to you; you are nothing to him. Don't attract his attention; the less he thinks about you the better because masters are dangerous. Don't let him know how unhappy you are, don't share yourself with him, don't make yourself vulnerable. Smile when he wants you to be happy. Fade into the background when he wants you to be silent. And never let on when you are sick because a pair of hands that can't do their job can be easily replaced by a different pair of hands.

Most masters understand this. Most try to give their slaves a little privacy. Most don't ask personal questions or show overmuch interest in the individual behind the hands.

Marcus, who is clearly not one of those masters, won't stop asking Esca if he's coming down with something. Damn it.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Truth be told, Esca's actually been feeling off for several days, chilled and flushed and shaky, and it's probably going to get worse before it gets better. He thinks it might even be a return of the marsh-fever he had as a boy. Then he lost 4 days tossing and turning on the dirt floor of his mother's hut, shaking with cold but too hot to lay on even the thinnest blanket. When it finally broke he spent another 4 days regaining his strength, drinking broth and watered mead and gasping with the effort of standing up to walk outside and relieve himself. Gods willing it won't be that bad this time. Marcus might be a tolerant master, as far as masters go, but he's not exactly going to be happy if Esca spends a week on the floor. Then Marcus might have to pour his own wine, or fold his own clothes, or massage his own damn leg and considering how little they paid for Esca he's not a particularly irreplaceable pair of hands.

Currently Marcus is staring down at Esca, who's staring back up at him. This is typical.

“If you're getting sick I should know. You should tell me. I could get a doctor or something.”

“Thank you, Centurion, but I'm fine.” Esca knows there's no way in hell a Roman would actually pay for a doctor to visit a slave, certainly not for a rebellious Brigante who can only read capital letters and who cost maybe a thousand sestertii, tops. Plus he knows Marcus doesn't really care; it's just another round in their never-ending battle of wills. He enjoys sparring like this with his master because he usually wins. Not that it ever stopped his master from trying.

Marcus leans in close, glaring down at Esca's face, which is politely, respectfully wearing that familiar I'm-not-talking-and-I'm-certainly-not-talking-to- _you_ expression.

“You're sick. You're pale—well, more pale—and you've got dark circles under your eyes and I threw you down three times during wrestling this afternoon and I seriously doubt that happened because you suddenly started feeling sorry for me and my leg.”

“Maybe the Centurion is finally improving his technique,” Esca says through teeth that are clenched tight, but certainly not because they keep trying to chatter or anything. And since he spends the majority of his days gritting his teeth at Marcus, the odds that it would be noticed now are slim.

“Don't grit your teeth at me, Esca.”

“No, Master.” Esca glances down at the floor, unsettled by Marcus' unusual burst of perception, and decides it's more than annoying that I'm-a-Roman-and-Rome-is-the-best would suddenly choose this particular afternoon to take an extra interest in I'm-not-a-Roman-and-I-hate-everything-about-Rome. _Grit._

The Centurion sees his advantage and presses it. “I'm dismissing you early today. Go to bed.”

Esca thinks quickly, hopes his master will take the bait. “If you do not require my presence at the dinner your uncle is having this evening, shall I tell Marcipor he is to wait on you instead?”

Then Marcus makes that noise in the back of his throat, the one that means Esca's beaten him again. Because Marcus would rather chew on rocks than let Marcipor hover over him all night long, telling him—politely!—to mind his posture, wash his hands and try the snails, don't they look good.

“Sleep late tomorrow morning, then. I insist.”

“Yes, Master.” And as Marcus dismisses him with a short flick of his hand Esca's pretty sure that the tension in that jawline means that the Centurion is gritting his teeth.

Maybe he will feel better in the morning, after all.

*************************************************************************************************************************

It turns out to be a good thing that Marcus ordered Esca to sleep in late the next morning, because it means that Esca isn't deliberately shirking work when he tries to stand and his knees give out instead.

It's the marsh-fever, it has to be the marsh-fever because this is the most wretched that he's physically felt in a very long time. Waking up on a strange floor the morning after having been repeatedly hit in the head with a sword in front of a crowd of people who were cheering for him to be run through while they snacked on pickled olives suddenly steps back a notch on the scale of Worst Mornings Esca's Had.

He tries to stand up again. It doesn't work. He tries to sit up. That doesn't work either. He just about manages to take a piss in the little pot next to his mat and feels stupidly pleased with himself that it hasn't gone all over, because he sleeps on the floor which means there's no bed for it to run under if he misses.

He lays back down and tells himself it's going to pass soon.

The room spins. Spins. Spins.

At some point Stephanos comes and nudges him with his foot, reminding him that although Esca might have gotten permission to sleep in late, enough is enough and there's work to do and dishes to wash and lazy slaves are useless slaves and useless slaves are pointless and pointless slaves—well, it's not pleasant, and all slaves want to be useful because otherwise why are they even keeping you? Why would anyone keep a pointless slave? Stephanos might not say all of that out loud, in fact Esca's pretty sure he actually said something more like “oh, my, I'd better get the Young Master”, but Esca knows what it all means. Hands that can't work get replaced.

The room spins again, faster.

And it makes him furious and frightened because he never wanted to be a slave in the first place and suddenly all he wants is to be a slave and do his work and eat his bowl of something soup-like and now he can't. He can't even be a slave. He doesn't even have that, now.

 

Marcus comes down to the slave quarters and although he would love the chance to say I-told-you-so he doesn't, because Esca really does look quite sick and probably feels even worse than he looks. It would be rubbing salt in the wounds. (Plus Esca's probably too sick to notice that Marcus has won this round, which takes all the fun out of it.) Instead he and Stephanos—mostly Marcus, although Stephanos huffs and puffs like he's genuinely trying—drag Esca's mat, with a weakly protesting Esca on it, over to Sassticcca's separate quarters just off the main slave room, so he can have a little privacy and maybe not spread whatever he's got to the rest of the household.

Marcus has apparently also told Stephanos to check up on Esca occasionally and make sure he's drinking water, eating soup and not making a huge mess everywhere. Esca assumes this, at least, because every couple of hours Stephanos comes by, offers him water and soup, makes tsk-ing noises while talking too loudly in that odd south-of-the-wall accent of his, and occasionally does something exceptionally cruel, like touching the back of his hand to Esca's forehead or patting him on the cheek. Esca feels like a horse has rolled over on him, decided it was fun and settled down on his head for the night.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Hands come, feel his face and go. It's night, now, or maybe it's just dark inside because there are no windows in the slave quarters. Someone puts a cup of terrible-tasting water to his lips, which are so cracked and painful that even the water burns them. Esca moves his head away, gingerly. Someone puts a spoonful of soup up to his mouth, but it tastes even worse, all sour and musty and off but maybe that's him, not the soup. He sweats with the heat but can't remember if someone has set a coal brazier in his room to try and keep him warm, or maybe he just dreamed that bit. Certainly it's hot enough. But he shakes with cold, too, again and again and his muscles ache with every movement, his bones striking the floor through his thin body but it hurts even more to try and shift away.

His tunic is soaked and he tries to pull it off, but his hands are too weak.

The horse is still lying on his head.

He hasn't needed to piss for a long time now but maybe Stephanos helped him and he doesn't remember, and he hopes not because it's shameful not being able to piss on your own, but maybe Stephanos hasn't helped him and he just pissed himself instead and that's why his tunic is so wet and that's even more shameful.

Esca is reaching the point of the fever where he can't control his emotions, let alone his body. His trembling limbs are hot and cold and so sensitive to the touch, but he hardly notices because all he can think about is the last time he was this ill. The memories are so clear in his mind, clearer than they have been in many long years and he can't push them aside any longer. It's breaking his heart. He can't stop remembering.

He wishes his Mam were here.

The fever-tears are rolling down his face and he doesn't even reach up to brush them away because although they are hot they are still cooler than his cheeks and that feels good.

His Mam, wiping his face with cool water from the river and humming to him, an old harvest song. He can't remember the words to it. All he can remember is how she looked when his father cut her throat. And his brother Fiál and he would go swimming in that river, so full of clean cool water and it's awful because he's desperately thirsty but the water down South here tastes so different, nothing like at his home which he will never see again. Fiál and he shared a tame otter, a pet they took from the river and trained, and he can't remember what they named the otter either and this is even worse, worse that he has forgotten the otter's name than the song's words because he could always find a tribe member, maybe, working in a Roman's fields and they could try and recall the words together or maybe other tribes sang the same song as they harvested their own fields of wheat, but Fiál cannot remind him of the otter's name because Fiál is dead, run through with a Roman spear, and if Esca cannot bring the name to mind by himself then the otter is gone forever, just like his brother and his Mam and everything else.

He is the last one left. The only one left.

And maybe soon he will be gone, too, because he cannot work and cannot even stand up or wipe off his cheeks and who knows what will happen to him then, and maybe he will just die here, on Sassticca's floor, and Marcus will shrug and joke with his uncle that at least Uncle didn't pay very much, and maybe next time he should buy a slave that's a bit taller so that the wrestling is more of an even match. No one will light a candle at his head or raise a cairn over his body. No one will even notice. In a few days Marcus will get a different slave who's actually a decent slave and properly respectful and dutiful and who smiles when Marcus makes those dumb jokes he always seems to make. Maybe Marcus will like the next slave better than he likes stupid, sullen Esca who's too proud to admit that he looks forward to hunting with Marcus and wrestling and racing and even waiting on him sometimes because Marcus at least remembers to always leave a bit of food left over for him so he doesn't just eat soup.

It's the arena and the crowd laughing as he dies all over again. He wonders dully if all slaves are afraid that one day they will die alone, in the dark, and no one will even take the time to help them pass. Maybe if he had been a better slave someone would come be sitting with him now.

Esca wants to cry from loneliness and fear but he's already crying over his otter and it makes no difference in the end.

*************************************************************************************************************************

There's a pair of boots in front of Esca's face. Official-looking boots. And there's a discussion happening, somewhere, with someone saying “you should have told me sooner how poorly he was doing” in a clipped Roman accent and someone else saying “it's Marcipor's turn to check up on him, I can't be everywhere at once” in a southern lilt.

This means Esca isn't dead, yet. He hopes. Death should not include Stephanos tsk-ing him.

Things happen. Time passes. The boots return.

“Esca. Raise your head up.” It's Marcus, and he's got a cup with water and he's pressing it to Esca's lips, just like Esca used to do after the surgery when Marcus was feverish. He wonders if Marcus hated him for doing so then as much as Esca hates Marcus and his cup of water right now. It's not Marcus, exactly, who he hates. But Marcus is his master, and he does not want to be so helpless in front of the man who owns him.

Surely Marcus should understand the misery of being helpless. But he's a cruel bastard, isn't he.

It takes most of his strength, but he pushes his master's hand away.

Marcus presses a cool, wet cloth to his forehead and it feels so good, like when Esca would jump into the river to race his brother and the otter. But he wants to feel gratitude toward the man who owns him about as much as he wants to be helpless in front of him, and so with the rest of his strength he turns his head towards the wall, away from the boots.

Marcus makes that noise again, in the back of his throat, which means Esca's winning, but for once Esca's not sure if he wants to win.

Marcus stands up.

“Esca.”

Esca ignores him.

“Esca. This is Marcus. Your master.”

Esca ignores that too. That's just facts. Marcus might just have well declared that it was foggy outside, or that his left leg hurt in the mornings. Marcus' voice hardens, a little.

“Esca, as your master you are duty-bound, by your own honor, to serve me. Yes?” Marcus is crossing his arms now, standing up straighter; Esca doesn't need to look up to know that. And since this is an actual question, he supposes he should answer. He gives a tentative _nnnngh_. It hurts to do anything more than that, and that's all he wants to concede anyways.

“You are still my slave. When I give you an order you obey it. No argument, no discussion.”

Damn it, damn him, damn this fever and Esca knows he can't claim this round of sparring with Marcus because Marcus has decided on playing to win. Plus Esca's feeling, for the moment, like some homesick new recruit who's just been given his first helmet and a cheap practice sword and is now being dressed down by his Centurion for not keeping the helmet shiny. It's not a good feeling.

“First order. Sit up. _Now_.”

Marcus has definitely put on his Centurion's Voice, and the unexpectedly cold authority in it makes Esca squirm and twist inside, partially because Marcus never actually talks to him like this. He hates Rome and this Roman in particular and this awful illness. He hates having to follow orders all the time. He hates being nothing more than someone else's property. And he hopes it won't turn out too badly between him and Marcus, because he's lost control of the situation and can't even control himself or stop the tears rolling down his face. He's crying in front of his master, which is even more shameful than pissing yourself, and he's amazed how alone you can feel even when other people are in the room, so close they could touch you on the cheek.

But orders are orders, so Esca pushes himself up on his elbows, which is a lot of work since he's still got the horse sitting on his head, and then forces himself into an upright position before his arms remember that he doesn't actually have the strength to do that.

He almost makes it, but the room takes a horrible lurch. Esca braces himself for the fall, and won't that shut the Centurion up at least, but then Marcus is kneeling on the floor next to him and has an arm around his shoulders, all muscle and stability because the Romans certainly do value their fitness. As Esca starts to sag from all this sitting up effort Marcus shifts, swinging Esca's near arm over his solid Roman neck and grabbing tight around his waist so Esca can go as limp as he likes and it will be fine, because Marcus is holding him up now.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Marcus adjusts positions again to get more comfortable. Esca just slumps forward, breathing hard and hanging off his master's neck because the room continues to spin and spin and spin. Thank the gods the crying has stopped for the moment. He is desperately hoping that he won't do anything else too embarrassing now, like throw up on the Centurion. He suspects the Centurion would not be pleased.

“You look like hammered shit!” Marcus remarks chipperly as he presses a cup of something liquid up to Esca's lips again. It tastes terrible, absolutely foul, and although he actually tries to take a drink his throat rebels against the bitterness. Surely even southern water was not always as bad as this. Marcus frowns at the cup, takes a small sip himself and grimaces dramatically, making the sort of face Esca would have actually laughed at had he been feeling less horrible and helpless.

“Stephanos! Come here!”

Stephanos shuffles in, eventually, some sort of discussion happens and the old slave shuffles back out. Esca's fading again. Marcus says something to him, questioningly, but it's a jumble in his ears and his teeth are chattering too hard to respond, anyways.

Marcus sighs the sort of sigh he always makes when he's one part frustrated, one part amused and one part trying to figure out what the hell to do next. It's a sound Esca usually enjoys—it either means he's won, or is about to win. At the moment, however, he's just hoping Marcus has some sort of a plan, because Esca's current goal includes moving as little as possible. Finally Marcus clears his throat, a bit pointedly.

“Right. Order number two.” The Centurion's back again, hassling the homesick recruit. “Stop fighting me off.” Then he takes a wet rag and gently cleans the back of Esca's neck with a deliberate, practical soldier's hand, wiping off his sticky forehead, his hot cheeks, his cracked lips and even behind his ears, which isn't really necessary but it feels good anyways just to be fresher and cooler and to be touched as if he's worth being cleaned up. Esca doesn't fight him off. Marcus wets the rag again and hands it to Esca, who finds he's got a little more energy now, and he finishes up washing his own face (paying special attention to the eyes, which he hopes aren't too obviously red or swollen) while Marcus watches. It's no swim in the river, not yet, but it's better.

While they finish the hygiene portion of whatever his master is inflicting on him Stephanos hands Marcus the cup back. Marcus sips tentatively and gives a little nod.

“Order number three. Drink.” Esca gives the cup a look of reluctance bordering on wide-eyed dread, so Marcus says a little less sternly, “there's water for you, afterwards, but first you have to finish this. It's got fever-medicine in it; that's the horrible bitter taste. Do you remember pouring this down my throat night after night after my surgery?”

Esca does remember, and he nods slowly. He'd spent those evenings secretly smirking about it. He almost smirks a little now just thinking about the look on Marcus' face then.

“I made Sassticca put honey in it, so it should taste... well, it's still vile, but now it's sweetened vile, which should be better. Or at least different. Anyway, drink it and that's an order. Please.”

So Esca drinks the entire cup in one go, shuddering the whole time because the honey doesn't actually help matters but he can't let Marcus show him up.

Then Marcus pours broth into him, a spoonful at a time, makes him drink the whole savory bowl. It takes a while, and some gets spilled down Esca's tunic because he's so shaky but finally it's done and damned if it doesn't feel like liquid strength flowing straight down his throat. He wants water, badly now, and actually asks for a second glass when he's finished the first. Marcus seems so pleased with the request that he helps Esca lean up against the wall and goes to fetch more water himself.

Esca watches him leave, but makes sure he's looking elsewhere when Marcus returns.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Drinking soup and washing off his face and sitting up for 10 minutes was apparently all the activity Esca could handle for the evening, because he's starting to droop quickly. Marcus helps ease him back down onto the floor and rearranges the blankets to keep him warm but not hot. Esca's pretty sure Marcus might have even... well, he'll allow that Marcus might have _manipulated_ his pillow a bit, to shift the lumps around, but that's exactly as far as Esca is going to let his mind go down that path, because Marcus is his master, dammit, and he's not going to spend the rest of summer twisting inside with the embarrassment of being mothered by him.

He falls asleep to the sound of Marcus and Stephanos whispering in the darkness outside the room. It annoys him and he wishes they would go away because they are keeping him awake, but it's better than feeling alone and at least now one person seems to be concerned about him.

His dreams are vivid, confusing, frightening and he can't get comfortable despite his exhaustion. Someone keeps his forehead cool but it makes him flinch because his skin is so sensitive. Now he's dreaming about Mam again, and she's singing, or maybe they're harvesting wheat because only during the harvest did it ever get so hot and sticky and miserable. No time for swimming. He's burning. His blood is thumping in his veins, pounding through his head and he's soaking his pillow and tunic and blanket once more as the sweat comes pouring out of him. The fever's breaking, thank the gods, and now it's done and he likes the feel of his face being wiped clean this time and he's cooler and calmer than he has been for days. It's dark and safe and he's going to be able to rest, finally. As he drifts off he suddenly remembers the otter's name, _Abhainn_ , and it's so silly and simple and obvious that he smiles weakly at himself for ever worrying about losing it.

He sleeps without dreaming.

In the morning Esca wakes up feeling better than he has felt in months, and doesn't think it's entirely due to the fact that the fever's gone. He lays there, content for the moment, and listens to the household waking around him. A pot clunks in the kitchen, Stephanos shuffles across the floor overhead on his way to wake up Uncle Aquilla and someone nearby breathes deeply in sleep. Esca shifts a little and wonders if anyone will bring him breakfast, or more water. He even tries sitting upright and finds he can manage that on his own. The horse has wandered off. Things are looking up.

Just as he's starting to feel pleased with this development, he notices the pair of legs sprawling on the ground just outside his room, feet splayed out and toes pointed up towards the ceiling. Legs. Wearing official-looking boots.

No—please gods, _no_.

The legs shift as Marcus hears him moving around and wakes up. He pokes his head in the door.

“Feeling better, Esca?” Esca just stares at him dumbly. He's run out of words. “Your fever broke last night, so I think you'll be able to stand up today. I want you to try after breakfast.” Esca nods obediently because, well, he can't think of anything more clever than that at the moment.

Marcus sniffs the stale air in the room and makes a face.

“You'd better be able to stand, actually, because you need a bath. Pretty badly. If you can't walk I think I could carry you, you're light enough, but I'll need help trying to get you back out—”

And Esca lurches to his feet, swaying and clinging to the door frame while Marcus steadies him under one elbow and the room whirls around his head. He glares up at his master but doesn't say anything because what's the point, he's already lost. Lost hard. Lost so badly that it's going to take a month's worth of sparring plus as many throwdowns during wrestling as he can manage, and he's _still_ going to be losing to I'm-a-Roman-and-Rome-is-the-best because slaves are supposed to be nothing to their masters, nothing more than a pair of hands, and because masters aren't supposed to do things like give a shit. Or sleep on the floor outside their slave's door to keep them company while they're sick.

Damn it.

Damn _him_.

Marcus grins down at Esca; he's beaten Esca for once and he knows it. Esca just bows his head politely and grits his teeth, not giving anything away because he's got a lot of catching up to do.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Esca has had a lot of time to think the past few days, because it's a good a distraction as any from the sheer misery of their current situation. The cold northern weather has turned against them, the constant pounding rain one more wet, clinging layer of discomfort piled on their already tired bodies.

This is what he is thinking, at present.

Britons see the world very differently from Romans. Just look at their artwork. Follow a line as it dodges and weaves away from its source, turning and splitting until one line becomes three, becomes nine, becomes a braid bending around a shield. Becomes water running over a stone. Becomes poetry. Life itself follows this path; many tales tangled together, and if you're very lucky maybe you'll get a glimpse of how your story lines meet with the larger pattern.

Romans are far more direct. Point A to Point B. This is how they conquer so easily—see a goal, make a plan, follow it through. Need a road from Rome to Capua? Find two legions with nothing else to do for the moment, quarry all the necessary stone, flatten the hills and pave. There: the Appian Way. Need a slave rebellion crushed? Send more legions, starve out and kill as many as possible, throw the final 6,000 in chains and crucify them along the Appian Way in regular intervals from Rome to Capua. There: peace restored.

There's benefits to both viewpoints, of course. The Roman outlook might lack complexity but it's very effective when conquering new territory and pacifying the natives, which is why Esca is Marcus' slave and not the other way around. It's useful. The British outlook sees how everything flows together, which gives deeper meaning to ordinary living. A desperate search past the wall becomes a struggle to restore honor. Master and slave become friends. It's poetic.

The poetry's nice, but it has its limits too. And there's a very limited supply of poetry to be found, no matter how hard you look, when you're three-quarters dead of cold and wet and hunger, sitting in an icy river with an enormous clonky gold eagle and all the Seal People hot on your trail, nothing in your belly for the past two days but raw rat.

Esca, for lack of anything else to do, has been following the tangled paths that got them to this point. His terrible fever, enforced walks through the countryside with Marcus to recover his strength, finding a new game trail, developing a hunting style together that made it easier to chase boar through the wooded copses, finally spearing one and feeling the pride—no, the _bond_ —that comes from good teamwork and a successful conclusion, the dinner after the hunt when Placidus criticized Marcus' dead father, the desire to restore family honor by doing something more significant than hunting.

Marcus sees the whole experience as a much more linear journey: discover the existance of the eagle, ride north, find the Seal People, take the eagle, ride south.

Both views are correct, in their way, but neither is going to matter soon if he can't get Marcus out of the rain.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Their endless sparring match, temporarily upended at the Seal Camp, sprang back the moment Esca woke up his master on the beach. He's been struggling ever since to maintain his honor as Marcus' slave while still getting them home alive. Somehow. They've had a particularly fierce battle of wills the past two days; shaming Marcus into eating the rat was especially unpleasant. Esca, who's smaller and lighter and needs less food and doesn't have a bad leg, has used up most of his spare energy hassling his master to keep moving when he wanted to rest and demanding that he rest when he wanted to keep moving. Irritating, but effective.

Finally, though, despite this endless stream of encouragement and harassment, the cold and the leg and the hunger became too overwhelming and Marcus declared he couldn't go on. Esca, after telling him to keep moving for three days straight, naturally declared that he just needed to rest first.

This is how they now come to find themselves standing waist-deep in the river, shouting at each other.

Marcus, so very Roman, is still stubbornly focused on the mission to the detriment of everything else, including himself. He assumes Esca is too, and he apparently thinks that handing out instructions will further this mission.

“Take the eagle—if you find horses come back. If not, just keep south. Make sure this gets back to Rome.”

Esca refuses him because—well, out of sheer habit. But he's uncertain. Doesn't know how to proceed, other than to tell his master yet one more time to rest. He's having a hard time thinking clearly in this rain.

Marcus appeals to authority. “Esca, I order you. Take it.”

That look and that voice worked once before, but not this time. He can't leave Marcus in the river, alone, because they've come this far together and some things are more important than obedience. And suddenly Esca, who's the slightly cleverer one, sees his opportunity. He watches all their story lines coming together, maybe able to join here, now, if he can just give them a small nudge...

He takes a deep breath and looks his master in the eye. “I swore an oath of honor never to abandon you. If you want me to leave, set me free. Give me my freedom.” And he waits—

Marcus takes the bait, says the words. “You're free, my friend.” He hands Esca his knife back, they clasp hands and that's it—the stories all converge, right there in the river and the rain. Freedom and release from honor-debt, finally, and even though Marcus doesn't realize it yet Esca's just claimed the fight, too, not only this round but the whole bloody game. No more struggle. No more sparring.

 _Got you, Marcus Flavius Aquila. I win._

Marcus pushes the eagle towards him, an ugly hunk of metal any sensible Briton would melt down for scrap. Esca isn't about to lug it south on his back, because it's heavy and stupid and awkward and he doesn't care about Rome, just Marcus, and because it would mean leaving his friend to die. So Esca pushes the eagle back at him and simply stands there, in what might be their last moment together, watching as one very small flicker of annoyed resignation flashes across his former master's face. As Marcus figures it out, just a second too late.

Oh, right. No more ordering Esca around.

“I will return,” Esca promises his friend, because finally he knows what to do next, how to proceed.

Esca's always been quick on his feet. Let's see how fast he can run now.


End file.
